


high for this

by dutty (vodka)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/pseuds/dutty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Nick's quiet evenings include baking weed brownies and fucking pop stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	high for this

It’s a Saturday evening and Nick is throwing himself a one-man pity party. He’d gone out the night before and he’s still feeling it nearly a full day later, wrung out and queasy from dancing arm-in-arm with Pixie and Henry on sticky bar tops and washing down the blunt Aimee had been lovely enough to roll him with several pints of something dark and Belgian and decidedly unpronounceable. The entire night’s nothing but a blur of embarrassment that abruptly ends with Nick sticking his head out the window of a taxi so he doesn’t get vomit on Pixie’s prized Alexander McQueen clutch. 

Nick never wants to leave home or check his Instagram again. 

He doesn’t think he’s had such an awful night since he was at least twenty-two and still figuring out how much he should drink whilst doped up on pills and poppers. 

His mobile vibrates against his thigh with another text from Cara. She’s been slagging him off for the past ten minutes because he’d politely declined her invite to a party that’s due to start much too soon, throwing the fact that Azealia Banks might pop in in Nick’s face because Azealia’s in London and Cara knows Nick absolutely adores her, and Cara’s also an arsehole in that way young pretty models often are. And yet he still taps out another quick _‘sorry I really can’t :( xxx’_ because he’s apparently gone soft overnight and fancies nothing more than staying in and letting his pride and liver recover. 

Nick’s not quite sure when he’d got too old for peer pressure to be effective, especially when Azealia Banks was involved.

It’s a bit depressing really, Nick thinks, coming to the grand realisation that he’s perfectly comfortable curled up on his sofa on a Saturday evening, clad in sweatpants with a cup of yoghurt and The Great British Bake Off for company. 

He’s honestly not been the same since hosting the Breakfast Show. Quite frankly, he thinks he’s turning into his mum more and more with each passing week; it was only the other day that he’d made Harry a spinach pie, and he hadn’t even burnt it and neither of them got sick after. It had been brilliant, actually, and Nick hasn’t been able to shut up about his domestic prowess since, which in itself is disconcerting. 

Mary Berry’s on the telly, biting into a cracker as Nick replies to Cara’s _‘well forget you then! :p’_ with a string of sad smiley faces. He’s beginning to think he’s falling into a midlife crisis, but he’d always imagined that would involve sports cars and twinks and cosmetic surgery and he’ll settle for nothing less. He ventures into the kitchen in hopes of finding a bottle of wine, liver recuperation firmly placed on the back burner.

“Harold,” he says desperately into his mobile a few minutes later. “It’s Grimmy. I’ve barely got a full glass of wine left in my flat and I’m lonely and old. What are you doing tonight?” 

“Huh,” Harry mumbles back, voice all sleep-wrecked and slow. “You alright?”

“Were you sleeping? God, you’re even older than I am,” Nick scoffs, downing the dribbling of wine he’d found straight from the bottle. Harry grunts something incoherent. “Are you doing anything later?” Nick asks again.

“Hadn’t planned on, why? What’s up?” Nick can hear Harry sitting up in bed, sheets shifting beneath and around him. 

Nick sighs, leaning against the counter and twisting the wine bottle between his fingers. “So I went out last night and made a complete arse of myself, and before you cut me off, it was worse than usual. And I’m all miserable and hungover still and everyone else is out… or busy being half of a sickening couple in Henry’s case. I’m in need of companionship.”

“Nice to know I’m your last resort, then,” Harry says, managing to sound both amused and like a moody teenage twat. Nick rolls his eyes.

“I’ll make you dinner; I need to go to the Waitrose anyway. Out of food, and most importantly, out of cheap wine. It’ll be fun. I’ll let you push the trolley.”

Harry makes an unimpressed noise. Nick knows he’ll be over soon. 

“Can’t we just order in?” Harry’s got out of bed and is moving around, floorboards creaking and hangers clattering along on the closet rod as he picks out something to wear. Nick tries not to think about the fact that Harry’s naked and bed-tousled whilst on the phone with him. It’s a common enough occurrence that it shouldn’t still be the distraction that it is.

“You took _ages_ to make dinner last time,” Harry continues when Nick doesn’t say anything back.

“This is why I don’t cook for pop stars; spoilt, the lot of you,” Nick says tartly. He’s actually more offended than he ought to be, but it’s warranted; that spinach pie was well worth the wait. 

Harry huffs into the phone, shuffling noisily about. Nick imagines he’s squeezing himself into a pair of the obscenely tight trousers he’s so fond of nowadays. “What are you planning on making this time, then?” 

Nick shrugs his shoulders, thumbing thoughtfully at his bottom lip. “Honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. You pick.” He pauses for a tick. “Nothing too complicated, though, unless you fancy starvation or food poisoning.” 

Harry lets out an exasperated little laugh. Nick would link to think it’s fond. “You’re not too bad at baking; we could do that. But it can’t be another pie.” 

“Oi! What’s wrong with my pie, you ungrateful wretch? I seem to remember you helping yourself to seconds and thirds.” Nick’s got half a mind to hang up on him, really. 

“Your pie is lovely, Grimmy,” Harry says earnestly. Nick almost preens. “But you _always_ want to make pie. You should branch out, do something less predictable.” 

“Did you just call me predictable?” Nick pulls his mobile off his ear, gives it the thoroughly offended glare he’d like to level Harry with. But then he’s suddenly got an idea. “All right then, Styles, how’s this for unpredictable: we’re having special brownies for tea.” 

“Special brownies?” Harry’s vaguely incredulous tone makes Nick feel like the young, crazy one in this scenario. It’s great. “Like with weed?” 

“Yes, Harold. Lots and lots of weed. I’ll ring my dealer up and have him come round whilst you’re out fetching the wine and brownie mix.” Nick’s already at his laptop, pulling up a recipe off Google he’s seen a few pals use before. “Oh, you should get some almond oil, too; burns slower so we’ll have a better high.” 

“…Thanks for assuming I’d agreed to run errands for you,” Harry says, sounding like a moody teenage twat again. Nick wishes he didn’t find it quite so endearing.

“You’re the one who said you weren’t doing anything tonight. C’mon, it’ll be fun! We can watch the Great British Bake Off stoned off our arses and then have a good sleep after. I’ll let you be the big spoon.” 

Harry’s always been a worryingly easy sell. “Yeah, alright. What kind of brownie mix d’you want?” 

“Anything as long as it’s chocolate and it needs oil to cook it,” Nick says, having a look inside the fridge. There’s nothing in it but vitamin water and butter and raspberry jam and an empty bottle of Stolichnaya that a can of whipped cream’s fallen behind. Nick thinks he can make out a plastic container of strawberries in one of the drawers, and he’s quite certain they’ve all gone bad because the last time he’d done any reasonable amount of shopping was at least two weeks ago.

He closes the fridge, glad Harry’s not there to make fun of him because Harry’s much too domesticated for a teenage lad and Nick’s the exact opposite. “I think you’re going to need to get eggs, as well.”

*

Nick’s managed to have the pot all ground up by the time Harry arrives with Waitrose bags hanging off his arm. Nick had rightfully assumed Harry’d been pulling on ridiculously tight trousers when they’d been on the phone, because he’s stood in the middle of Nick’s kitchen skimming through the recipe Nick’s still got open on his laptop, looking like a lanky silhouette in his dark jeans and a thin, black top that’s cut low enough to show off his necklaces and collar bones and a hints of tattoos. 

“Are you sure you know how to do this?” he says, watching Nick heat the almond oil up in a saucepan. “Looks a bit complicated.”

“Your faith in me warms the heart, it does,” Nick replies, deadpan, raising the jar he’d found to stash the pot in to Harry’s face. “Smell. Good, yeah?” 

Harry makes an odd face and Nick’s got to wonder if he’d got high off the whiff alone; Harry’s a lightweight on the most inconvenient of nights. He grins wide, all dimply and boyish. “We’re going to be so fucked.”

“Innit though?” Nick laughs, emptying the jar out over the saucepan. “You think I could slip one of the leftovers to Fincham when we’re done? Could you imagine: Finchy stoned on air? It’d be sick.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, swatting Nick on the arse as he opens the cupboard and pulls two mismatched wineglasses out. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to drug people without their consent.” 

“Ugh, you’re so boring.” Nick makes a face. Harry presses a glass of supermarket wine into his hand. “Say, you used to work in a bakery if your X Factor sob story’s to be believed. You should be good at this.” 

“We didn’t make special brownies, though,” Harry says. “Although we would’ve probably got more customers coming in if we did…” 

“When you’re done with the whole pop star thing and I’m old and irrelevant like Moyles, we should move to Amsterdam and open a bakery. Maybe have a brothel on the side,” Nick muses, like it’s the greatest, most plausible thing that’s ever occurred to him. Truth be told, he’s probably starting to feel a bit high; the kitchen stinks of weed and he’s already begun having ridiculous epiphanies. Harry’s hovering over his shoulder, watching the leaves crackle in the sizzling oil. 

“I like Amsterdam,” Harry says after so long that Nick’s almost forgot what they’d been talking about. “I’d say it’s the city I’ve been flashed most in.” 

Nick scoffs, a smile threatening to destroy his practiced frown. “Can we go one day without talking about how everyone wants to fuck you?” 

“What else would we have to talk about then?” Harry rudely replies, biting into his distractingly pink bottom lip and then taking a swig from his wineglass. 

“As vain as you are cheeky. You’ve changed.” 

Harry delivers one of his adorable, faux-offended _Heyyy_ ’s. “I’m only taking the piss,” he says softly, giving Nick’s shoulder a playful little nip. Nick skips a breath; Harry’s already well versed on how much Nick likes to feel teeth on his skin; they’ve got each other off enough times after nights out, drunk and desperate and barely making it to Nick’s bedroom. But sometimes, rarely, it spills into normal days like this, fucking in the middle of the afternoon or strangely platonic blowjobs whilst Nigella’s on. Nick hadn’t been planning on it this evening, hadn’t been thinking about sex at all, really, but Harry’s flashing him that big flirty smile that means he’s got sex on his mind. 

Nick’s throat’s gone a bit dry. He takes an irresponsibly large swallow of wine. “Recipe says we should let it cook for about half an hour before we add the oil to the brownie batter.” 

“We should get mixing while we wait then,” Harry says blithely, apparently switching from irritatingly pretty cock-tease to irritatingly pretty baker within a matter of seconds, bumbling about the kitchen and gathering ingredients and a big bowl Nick remembers wearing home as a hat from a party at Mark Ronson’s that Lily had dragged him to a blur of events ago. He doesn’t think he’s used it for anything legitimate since accidentally acquiring it; remembers offering it to Caroline to vomit in once. Thankfully she’d made it to the toilet instead.

“I’ll put some music on,” he says, heading over to his laptop where his screen saver’s popped up: a really shitty collage Aimee had put together of Nick’s face and comparatively low-res hearts, all pasted over photos of Zac Efron and Drake and Frank Ocean and a tiny one of Harry in the bottom left corner. Nick’s certain Fincham had had a hand in it. He’s honestly got the worst friends. They’ll all regret mocking him and his prowess when he’s in a polygamous relationship with Zac, Drake, Frank, Harry AND whatever pretty model’s got his attention at the time; he’s already shagged _the_ Harry Styles, and Harry obviously liked it enough to stick around and play house in his kitchen on a Saturday night.

And just like that Nick’s gone and made himself uncomfortable because even a fictional five-way relationship he hadn’t actually voiced seems like too much commitment. 

He pulls his music library up, turning just in time to watch Harry crack an egg, breaking it apart in perfect halves. “How do you feel about some Wu-Tang?” 

 

*

 

The brownies turn out better than most of Nick’s madcap ideas; they’re moist and soft and just the right kind of potent, perhaps entirely due to the fact that Harry’d got much too focused on the whole thing and had taken over as project leader, swatting Nick off the laptop and out of the way and opening up several tabs with different tips and recipes to ensure they were on the right path. He’d even cut them into perfect little squares, which Nick grudgingly finds quite admirable considering that Harry’d had at least two full glasses of wine whilst they’d been in the oven. Nick’s given up on trying to make sense of Harry’s numerous and oft-contradictory peculiarities. 

“D’you feel it yet?” Harry asks sometime later. His is breath warm on the curve of Nick’s neck. 

They’re curled up on the sofa, an old episode of British Bake Off playing even though Nick doesn’t think either of them has been following it very closely. All Nick can smell and taste is strong weed and baked chocolate, Harry’s hair soft against the side of his face and catching on his stubble because he’s got his head tucked on Nick’s shoulder. They’d both got overzealous and crammed two brownies into their mouths as soon as they’d cooled off, wanting to _feel_ it as quickly as possible. Nick’s head feels tight, like it’s been stuffed with white noise and cotton and every time he blinks his vision goes unfocused and his eyelids get heavy. It’s amazing. He’ll have to snog his dealer the next time he comes round. 

“Yeah,” Nick finally says, licking at his dry lips. “You?”

Harry pulls himself upright, loose and languid, staring at Nick with red, sleepy eyes and wide pupils. “I’m fucked.” 

Nick barks out a laugh. “I can see that,” he says, running a hand through the waves and curls of Harry’s trademark mop, fingertips pressing into his scalp. Harry’s hair really is quite soft. Harry leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut. 

“Feels nice,” he murmurs, all low and raspy. His squinty glare almost physically pains Nick when he pulls his hand away. 

“Sorry, love; need to fetch another brownie,” Nick says, slowly standing. He thinks he can feel every muscle and ligament in his legs shift. “You want anything from the kitchen?” 

Harry’s still squinting, clearly unimpressed with the lack of physical contact. “Why are you getting another one?”

Nick ruffles Harry’s hair. “Because I’m not a lightweight like certain pop stars I know.”

Harry flips him off, finishing the smidgeon of wine that’d been left in his glass. Nick shakes his head, muttering about moody teenage twats who also happen to be spoilt brats sometimes as he heads to the kitchen. He ends up finishing the brownie before he’s even reached the living room, overtaken by some manic cannabis-induced hunger that probably shouldn’t have been sated with more cannabis. But then, Nick’s always been bad with controlling himself around chocolate and pastries.

He stops short when he walks in on Harry bucking his hips up off the sofa, pushing his boxers off his thighs and down his stupidly long legs, kicking them onto the floor where the rest of his clothes had been discarded. He’s hard, cock thick and red and curved against his annoyingly perfect stomach, and Nick can’t help but stop and stare at all the long lines and pale skin and dark tattoos. Not for the first time, Nick thinks Harry Styles should be illegal. 

“Hi,” Harry says, spreading his legs just that little bit wider, wriggling his hips lower into the cushions so that Nick’s got a good view of _everything_. 

“Hi,” Nick’s barely able to say back. 

“C’mere.” 

And Nick does. 

Harry pulls Nick down on top of him, licking into Nick’s mouth wet and dirty, kissing slow and curious like he’s never felt the slick heat of another mouth before. Nick’s head is swimming and he’s got to close his eyes because everything feels like too much right now; Harry’s fingers curled round the bag of his neck, his naked thighs brushing Nick’s flanks where his t-shirt’s ridden up. He can feel Harry’s cock, firm against his hip where he’s grinding it slowly into the curve of Nick’s pelvis. 

“Fuck,” Nick breathes against Harry’s pink, swollen mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry laughs like his lungs are out of air, and his eyes are so big and green that Nick forgets himself for a moment. But then Harry’s fingers are wrenched in his hair, urging Nick’s head lower. Nick grins, pressing a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth, biting at the sharp angle of his jaw, his neck, and the skin between his clavicle and the swallow tattooed beneath it. 

He sucks big bruises onto Harry’s stomach, leaves a wet ring of teeth marks round one nipple, and god he loves how easy it is to leave marks on Harry’s skin, red blooming to the surface with every touch that’s anything but gentle. It’s always been distracting, but it’s absolutely fascinating now. He sinks his teeth into the tattoo along Harry’s hip, and Harry swears, jutting up into Nick’s mouth. 

“C’mon,” Harry’s voice cracks; fingers rough in Nick’s hair, yanking Nick’s head back because he’s never much fancied being teased. He’s got his cock in his other hand, pushing it into Nick’s mouth until it hits the back of his throat, and Nick’s done being bossed about, pulling Harry’s thighs up onto his shoulders as he swallows him to the root. 

“Oh god, fuck, this feels fucked,” Harry natters on, both hands tangled in Nick’s hair like he’s gripping onto handlebars and speeding downhill. He’s a mess, over stimulated and desperate, fucking Nick’s face hard and then going almost completely still when it’s too much. 

Nick pulls off him, angles Harry’s legs higher up on his shoulders so that he can lick him from arse crack to sac, press his tongue against the tight, pink clutch of his hole, get him so wet and open that Nick’s chin’s slick with spit by the time Harry’s coming, tugging at his cock as his own spunk hits his chest and belly, white and obscene where it’s spattered onto the black ink of one of his pretty little swallow birds. 

“You’ve still got to come,” Harry says. He looks wrecked, hair a disaster, skin flushed and lips wet and full. He shouldn’t look as good as he does, but Nick’s never seen anyone wear fucked-out quite as well as Harry Styles does. 

“Yeah,” Nick says, standing on legs he can no longer feel, and it’s then that he realises he’s had his clothes on the entire time whilst Harry’s been wearing nothing but his necklaces. Christ. “You going to help me out with that then?” 

Harry doesn’t bother taking Nick’s clothes off, just pulls his sweatpants and boxers down round his thighs and rolls a condom he’d had in his trouser pocket onto Nick’s cock. And Nick doesn’t think he’s ever been this high, doesn’t know how he’s even managing to enjoy Harry straddling his lap, fucking himself down onto Nick’s cock until Nick’s all the way inside. It doesn’t take long for Nick to lose it, or maybe it does, but Nick’s in the midst of something transcendental, watching Harry’s necklaces bounce against his shifting collarbones as Nick slams up into him, holding Harry’s hips against his own as he comes. 

Harry’s still naked and Nick’s just got his shirt on when they finally make it onto Nick’s bed. 

Nick pulls up a Kendrick Lamar track on his mobile; it seems like the appropriate choice to check his twitter to whilst Harry passes out beside him with an arm thrown across Nick’s middle and one leg shoved between Nick’s own. Everything’s still hazy and Nick’s sort of worried he’s done permanent damage to his brain this time because he feels like he’s too high to sleep and yet too high to do anything at all, and it’s only getting worse by the minute. He knows he’s being paranoid, but what if he’s not?

He sends Aimee a text begging her to pull the plug if he’s ever announced brain dead with no hope of recovery. 

“We should eat more of these tomorrow,” Harry says, muffled because his face is pressed against Nick’s chest. “Watch a weird film or something.” 

Nick smiles, kissing the top of Harry’s head, and Harry snuggles impossibly closer before going quiet again. Nick thinks that he’ll perhaps be okay even if it still feels like he’s floating and there’s noise in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Title creatively taken from 'high for this' by The Weeknd.


End file.
